


The Hat

by phoenixyfriend



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And dances, Autistic Keith, Historical Dress, It's subtle but I'm working through some shit so... yeah, Lance Sews, M/M, and is a bit of a history nerd, these all come together in ways that accidentally scare Keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 05:10:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12005718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixyfriend/pseuds/phoenixyfriend
Summary: In which Keith sees that Lance owns a fedora, skydives to a conclusion, and then finds out something entirely different as a result."Oh god, I’m dating a fedora dudebro."(No, no, he isn't.)





	The Hat

**Author's Note:**

> So I have a very dumb headcanon for modern AU Klance and I decided to turn it into this fic.

“I’ll go grab some snacks!” Lance said, fidgeting nervously before he darted out the door and ran down the stairs, shouting something in Spanish.

Keith sat down in the chair by Lance’s desk, a little uncomfortable, and looked around.

It was his first time in his boyfriend’s room, at his boyfriend’s house. He was allowed to be a little nervous. Everyone would be nervous in this kind of situation. Lance had invited Keith home from college for the _entire spring break_. That was… something. A full week, in Lance’s house, and room, and surrounded by his family? It was a lot.

He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, looking around. The walls were covered in posters, most of them for sci fi and action movies, and a few shows that followed similar themes. Keith’s mouth quirked up into a smile against his will as he saw the GoLion poster. The show was old and maybe a little cringey, to be honest, but it _had_ brought them together, after a fashion.

Lance’s room was a mess in ways that Keith’s wasn’t. Where Keith had a corkboard covered shamelessly in photos and yarn, Lance had a corkboard covered in photos from his entire life. Where Keith had binoculars and compasses and maps strewn around, Lance had feather boas and jars of _something_ and beaded necklaces from freshman year’s Mardi Gras parties. Where Keith had boxes of bandages and books on unsolved airplane crashes, Lance had boxes of make-up and books of…

Keith tilted his head, squinting. Broadway showtunes, apparently.

That wasn’t actually surprising.

And where Keith might have had his ‘lanyard full of emergency shit so Shiro doesn’t worry if I run off to chase a lead on a conspiracy with Pidge again’ hanging off of his bedpost, Lance had… a fedora?

A… a fedora.

Keith stared at it.

 _Oh god, I’m dating a fedora dudebro_.

He rewound that thought after a moment, because… well, that hat could just be something else. The hat could be plenty of things.

And, anyway, Lance was bi and dating a dude, dating _Keith,_ and most fedora dudebro Nice Guy types were aggressively straight, right?

Right?

Keith stared at the fedora with slightly more trepidation.

…right?

Lance burst back in through the door, a plate of something that looked like a bunch of small calzones in his hands. “My mom actually made us empanadas? So that’s the snack to—Oh, you can just shove your suitcase under my bed when you aren’t using it, there’s room. My parents aren’t going to raise a fuss about us sharing a bed, even, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

“Right,” Keith said, taking a moment to process all of… that. “There’s no tomatoes, right?”

“I told her your allergies before we came up,” Lance promised. “No tomatoes.”

“Okay, then,” Keith said. He shrugged and took one of the empanadas, taking a bite and trying to ignore the expectant look on Lance’s face. “It’s good.”

“Hell yeah, it is,” Lance said cheerily. He fidgeted again, putting the plate on his desk after a moment. “So… what do you think of my room?”

Keith’s thoughts fell back to the fedora, and only then to everything else. “Um… it’s glittery?”

“…I feel like you’re judging me,” Lance said, pouting and flopping down on his bed. “Keeeeeeith.”

“I’m not judging the glitter… or the sequins… or the masks…”

Lance popped up with a squawking noise of offense. “Hey, I got those from _Venice_ while I was on vacation! They’re legit!”

“Sure, Lance,” Keith said, mockingly placating, and grinned. Lance would know he was joking if he smiled, right? “I do have one question, though…”

“Shoot.”

“What’s up with the fedora?”

Lance followed the jab of Keith’s thumb, a too-casual movement on Keith’s part. His eyes brightened. “Oh!”

“Oh?”

“Okay, so… you can’t make fun of me,” Lance said.

“…I promise not to mock you unless you honestly deserve it,” Keith said, which was a fair compromise on his part. “Not too much, anyway. You’d do the same with me.”

Lance made a face. “Keeeeeeeeith.”

“Remember that time Uncle Thace came to p—”

“Okay, yeah, fine.” Lance threw his hands up in the air.

“You made fun of me for hours.”

“Fine, you can mock me, but not in a mean way,” Lance amended.

“I… trust you to tell me if I’m overstepping a line,” Keith said. “I can’t always tell.”

“I can work with it,” Lance declared. “Now close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes,” Lance repeated. “And wait until I tell you to open them.”

“Why?” Keith asked.

“Because I want what I’m doing to be a surprise?” Lance shrugged. “It’s more boring if you see me doing it p… piecemeal? Yeah, that’s the word.”

“Okay,” Keith said. He spun around on Lance’s chair and pillowed his head on his arms, eyes closed. “Tell me when.”

“Hold on, I’m gonna put a towel over your eyes.”

“Really, Lance?”

“C’mon, dude, please?”

Keith opened his eyes just enough to roll them, and then snorted as a towel fell over his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you’re dating me!” Lance reminded him.

Keith kept his eyes closed, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was maybe straining his ears a little to hear whatever Lance was doing. There was a lot noise, mostly shifting fabrics and Lance bumping into things with the odd curse thrown in. Keith didn’t bother trying to figure out what was going on, just did his best to keep his mind from jumping train tracks towards unfortunate conclusions like ‘fedora dudebro.’

Maybe he could just… think about something else until then. Like that documentary he’d been watching on the Tuskegee syphilis experiment. He‘d only been halfway through, but it was interesting, and somewhat enraging, to learn how racism had played into the cover-up and eventual termination and nationwide exposure of the nature of the experiment.

“Okay, I’m done!” Lance called, and Keith had barely taken off the towel before the music started.

It was.

Well.

“What?” Keith asked after a moment.

“You don’t like it?” Lance asked, his grin falling. The hooked cane he had balanced over his shoulders swung around and down, the tip planting itself directly between Lance’s feet, both hands resting on the hook itself.

“I’m more confused than anything,” Keith said. “Is that a suit?”

“Historically accurate 1920s men’s suit,” Lance confirmed. “Including historically accurate undergarments.”

Keith’s eyes darted up to the hat and then back to the cane, and then up to Lance’s face. “So… why?”

“Why not?” Lance asked, whipping the cane around in a circle a few times. “I like history, fashion, and musical theater.”

“…so the song—”

“Is actually from about three decades later,” Lance admitted. “Singing in the Rain. 1952.”

“Did you make the suit yourself?” Keith asked.

“What do you take me for, an amateur?” Lance scoffed.

“Are you saying you’ve been paid for this?” Keith asked. “Because you’re technically an amateur unless you’ve been paid.”

“I’ve done early twentieth century fashion on commission before,” Lance said, nose in the air. “So _yes,_ Mr. Doubtful, I am indeed technically a professional.”

“And yet you’re majoring in astrophysics,” Keith said, raising one eyebrow. “You know…”

“I know that _look_ on your face, if that’s what you mean.”

“You act like a frat boy,” Keith said, getting up from the chair and coming closer. He ran a hand down one of the lapels of the suit, internally admiring how surprisingly soft the fabric was. “But you’re _really_ a nerd.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “Says the guy who watches documentaries in his free time.”

“You sew historically accurate costumes, Lance,” Keith said. He grinned. “You. Are. A nerd.”

“Eh, true,” Lance said, shrugging. A smirk crawled across his face, and he reached up to tilt his hat. “So… you like it, pretty boy?”

“It’s impressive,” Keith allowed. “Just… seriously?”

“Hey, I haven’t even _danced_ yet!” Lance protested.

“…you have a dance?” Keith asked, not bothering to hold back a laugh. “A _historically accurate_ dance?”

“Not quite,” Lance said. “Song’s from the fifties, not twenties, so…”

“Oh my god,” Keith snorted, leaning forward to press his forehead against Lance’s shoulder. “You fucking _nerd_.”

Lance shifted around a little, and Keith looked up to see that he was reaching behind himself for the audio system. Lance pouted at him. “Listen, do you want to see me dance or not, pretty boy?”

Keith laughed and backed away, sitting back down at Lance’s desk chair, straddling the back. “Go ahead, then. Entertain me.”

Lance nodded, holding on to the brim of his hat and grinning. “Prepare to be amazed.”

“Kind of already am.” Keith didn’t bother to say by what.

(The fact that he was here at all, dating Lance? Yeah. That was… well, it had been months since they’d gotten together, and he was still a little amazed that it had happened at all.)

(Lance’s dancing was suitably impressive, though. Very well-choreographed, in Keith’s utterly unprofessional opinion.)

**Author's Note:**

> The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment was a highly unethical biomedical study that was conducted on six hundred black men over the course of several decades without their knowledge. It's one of the most infamous medical experiments ever performed, but wasn't made public until 1972, when whistleblower Peter Buxton went to the press after failing to get the experiment shut down in other ways.


End file.
